


The Death of Paul Davis

by thepurgatorial



Category: History - Fandom
Genre: Civil War, Death, History, Other, Wild West
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22335781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepurgatorial/pseuds/thepurgatorial
Summary: Paul Davis is a lonely ex-Union soldier living in Montana during the winter in 1872. Paul begins to break under pressure as he is tormented by a mysterious bear.





	The Death of Paul Davis

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first public short story, I really hope you enjoy!
> 
> TW: Self Harm, Guns, Alcohol, Bears.

A man, clad in an assortment of furs, makes his way down to a stream with a Winchester in his hand. Snow covers the ground, it’s winter in Montana. The man slowly shimmy’s through the tall snow down to a lone tree by the edge of the stream. He stops, putting his forearm against the tree, leaning to relax. His breath was shaky, his body the same. He had sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, and wild unkempt hair with equally wild facial hair. He squinted through his blurry eyes, scanning the area ‘cross the stream. As he gazed onward he thought back to the bear, the bear that had scared off all the wildlife in the area, managing to destroy his crops as well. He started to think back to what the bear truly did. Closing his eyes for a second, gritting his teeth. For 20 miles all around there wasn’t a single trace of food, all because of that beast. As he slowly opened his eyes, he looked up and gasped with a curse, crouching low to the ground quickly. About fifty yards out ‘cross the stream was a white tail deer. The man lifted his gun, engraved on the stock was, “Paul Davis - 1862.” As he raised the gun he struggled to aim under its weight. His eyes were blurry from the snowfall, his arms weak from fatigue. His red, frostbit hands shook and his breath faltered anxiously. The deer suddenly turned towards him and out of fear he prematurely fired. The shot missed by ten yards to the right of the deer. Within an instant the deer ran down the stream and into the woods beyond. As he stared on he began to weep, his lip quivering. He threw down his gun and turned and punched the tree beside him. He wasn’t as strong as he once was. 

Paul was a simple man, he grew up in Kentucky and fought for the Union, up until he was discharged in ‘62. He wed his wife 8 years later and only just 6 months ago he brought her to Montana to get away from the modern world. As he walked back through the woods he turned and stared at the mountains. She always thought they were beautiful. As he grew closer to his small cabin he saw her. She brought him no smile though, his eyes on the dirt before him. “A maiden of joy,” was scrawled into the wooden cross above her grave. 

As Paul entered his abode he felt as if it was colder in his house than outside. His fireplace hadn’t been lit in two months now, firewood being too wet. He sighed and took off his fur jacket despite the cold. His figure was skeletal, his skin sagged from the loss of muscle. He slowly put the jacket on the coat rack she made. Wincing as he did so. As he set down his Winchester by the door he turned and took in his lone room. The house was built poorly, not insulated well. The pot of water for cleaning in the corner was frozen over, and by the window was a messy bed, accompanied by a desk with a painting on it. He always loved painting, but he took to drawing the boy recently. His wife always told him that he was in a better place, that it wasn’t his fault. He clenched his fist. The bear took everything from him. He hated it. Wanted nothing more than it to be dead. Paul began to rub his face. Growing more red as he thought. As he began to tremble, he pulled down his hands and screamed. Tears flowing from his eyes as he screamed with rage. Slowly he fell to his knees, putting his hands on the back of his head as his anger turned to regret. He hated the bear, he hated it, he said to himself as he sobbed. His wife, the boy, his food, everything. It took everything from him. 

Paul started drinking that night. His lips hadn’t ever touched his liquor supply since he moved west until the last few weeks. He was so filled with rage and regret that he didn’t really care anymore. As he drank, sitting on the floor with his jacket and old union hat on, he stared at the painting across the room. Swallowing the last drop of his whiskey, he held the bottle in his hand and wiped his face clean of tears. He analyzed the face of the boy, it looked just like him. The pain was still so fresh. As it festered inside him his eyebrows furrowed, slowly standing. It represented his failure. His loss. Once again his face grew red, and with a drunken yell he cursed it, throwing his bottle at it. As the bottle flew across the room it crashed into the wall, missing by a few feet. With that the house creaked, loosening a log above Paul’s head, falling and hitting him. 

The world around Paul grew dark, then from in front of him came the truth. He met Ana at a bar, a down on her luck prostitute with nothing to live for. Paul was the same way, albeit only the latter half. She had come up to him for business but he had a few drinks in him and talked about his discharge, how his father died when he was young, and how his mother never really knew him. She took pity on the poor fool. If only she knew how the next few years would go. She may have never wanted to see him. Never would have wanted to marry him. Never would have wanted to be starving to death in Montana after a false promise for a new life. Never would have wanted to be pitied by that beast. Never would have wanted to be killed out of mercy. He remembered the crops that would never grow, the bear destroying them in acts of blind foolishness. He then remembered back to ‘62. That drummer boy. Bear killed him too. It was so frightened then, still young, didn’t distinguish the tapping of a drum from a gunshot. Led Paul down the darkest path of grief after the discharge. 

Paul’s eyes opened, his head was bleeding. Beside him was the log that had fallen from the ceiling. It was split in half. He blinked, his expression blank, his eyes cold and unfeeling. He slowly rose to his feet, struggling as he went. As he stood he limped over and picked his Winchester up from the door. Next he slowly walked up to the desk and sat in his chair, slowly putting the painting on the ground. As Paul loaded the gun he looked through the window. As he opened his mouth and put the muzzle inside he stared off at the mountains. His vision then began to adjust, his reflection being seen. He make out the details, but he saw the outline of his face. The face he knew his entire life. The face of the bear.


End file.
